


Still a Stranger

by Glenraven



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Celty's head, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Izaya in a wheelchair, Language, Loneliness, NOT post-Ketsu, Namie reluctantly taking care of Izaya, Obsession, Recovery, Sexual Tension, daily life, depiction of injuries (non-graphic), myths/Izaya's Valkyrie theory, not primarily romantic, russian mob, trip to russia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-03-07 06:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glenraven/pseuds/Glenraven
Summary: When Namie comes to work for Izaya after the fallout of that first Dollars meet-up, he is not sure whether hiring her was the right decision. It's nice to have company (not that he is lonely or anything) but Namie tends to see too much.Things change when after a chase with Shizuo gone wrong, Izaya is unable to take care of himself. They change even more when Izaya accepts an invitation of an old associate and Namie accompanies him to Russia.And then there is the Dullahan's head, mysteriously slumbering, waiting to wake, spinning her web around the men she crosses and ensnaring them ever more tightly...Or: In which I try to tie together the Dullahan head's influence on Izaya, while at the same time focusing on the shifting dynamics between him and Namie as they are forced into an odd sort of domesticity.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I started during NaNoWriMo and I have around 25k written. It still needs editing though, so I can't promise super fast updates.  
> Title is a song by AFI. I had the idea for this while listening to it.
> 
> This is probably the oddest thing I've ever written. But I feel like there are not enough fics focusing on the whole plot with Celty's head, and how men become obsessed with it, and inhowfar it might be influencing Izaya's behavior and decisions.  
> This first chapter introduces the status quo between Izaya and Namie, so it's a bit slower in pace.

Orihara Izaya was still not one hundred percent sure that forcing Yagiri Namie to become his secretary had been a good idea. The woman had proven herself to be smart, capable, and devious, even if she sometimes let emotions get in the way of more rational decisions. However, that also meant she was seeing too much.  
Despite all that though…  
“Ne, Namie-san, bring me another coffee?”  
  
“I’m busy doing your work,” she said detachedly as she stared at her own computer screen on the opposite side of his large desk.  
“You can get on with that after you bring me my coffee.” Izaya grinned when he saw her brows twitch. In her own way, she was as fun to needle as Shizu-chan. She usually tried not to show her annoyance, which made it even more rewarding when he could see through her or goad her into displaying it anyway.  
“As my idiot child-king demands,” she mumbled under her breath.  
Izaya pretended not to hear and simply gave her a fox-faced smile. He didn’t even really want that coffee. He just couldn’t resist bothering her.  
He was keeping an eye on the Dollars website as well as on some of the chatrooms he often lurked in for information. It had been a few weeks since that first Dollars meet-up that had ended with the Black Rider making a spectacle of herself, but things had not calmed down all that much. Izaya had seen to that. He made sure to speak the right words to the right person, to plant those seeds of doubt or obsession in their minds. Ryuugamine Mikado was particularly interesting in this respect. Izaya would not have been grooming him for so long otherwise. His thoughts briefly went to the Dullahan’s head on his bookshelf. Soon, surely...  
  
The coffee was put down in front of him with so much force that it nearly sloshed over the rim of the cup. “There.” Her voice was as stony and detached as ever.  
“Thank you so much, Namie-chan!” Izaya sing-songed.  
Her facial expression did not change but her eyes grew even frostier.  
“I’d appreciate it if as my employer, you would not ‘chan’ me. It’s inappropriate.”  
“So cold, Namie-san,” Izaya teased. “One would almost think that you don’t like me.”  
Namie rounded the desk and got back to work, ignoring him. She was probably consoling herself by thinking of her brother. Izaya snickered.  
He turned his chair to face his floor to ceiling windows. It had long since grown dark outside, the city lights a stark contrast to the black night sky. Izaya heard the clacking of keys from the other side of the desk and sipped from his warm cup of coffee, cradling it in his palm.  
Notwithstanding her faults… it was nice to have some company on late nights like these.  
  
“Can I go now?” she asked. “I finished the report.”  
Izaya sighed quietly, then turned around. “Sure, Namie-san.” His smirk twisted into irony. “Thank you for your hard work.”  
She scoffed before throwing on her coat and grabbing her bag. On the way to the door, she pulled her long, dark hair from her collar and let it fall down her back. Izaya’s fingers tightened around the mug.  
Without another word or even a glance over her shoulder, Namie left. The door clicked shut behind her, locking automatically.  
  
The silence she left behind was deafening. The only solution Izaya knew was to bury himself in more work, get an early start on an assignment from Shiki-san, and prompt a few people online to do things that seemed like a good idea but would almost certainly not end well. Humans were so gullible, he almost felt sorry for them.  
  
  
Izaya liked riding in Shiki’s car. The leather seats were soft, the interior always smelled good, and the motor made a very agreeable sound. And there was Shiki-san himself, of course. A very fascinating human. The man had been around the block a few times and was naturally sceptical and mistrustful. Izaya knew very well that Shiki occasionally had him watched. He was fairly sure that Shiki knew that he knew.  
Right now, the yakuza executive’s nose was buried in the documents Izaya had brought with him. Izaya had needed to do a lot of digging on this one but it had paid off. It proved Shiki’s hunch concerning one of the Awakusu-kai’s business associates right - the man was systematically ripping them off.  
  
“This is very serious, Orihara-san,” Shiki said while flipping through the rest of the files. The frown between his brows was even more pronounced than it usually was and his lips were pressed into a grim line. He was austere and impersonal as always. Even though he’d been doing work for Shiki for a few years now, Izaya knew next to nothing about the man, and it wasn’t for lack of trying.  
“We must deal with this unpleasant matter swiftly but delicately.”  
Izaya smiled and leaned back in his seat. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll get you the necessary information. Do you know where the guy is?”  
Shiki nodded and fixed his dark eyes on Izaya. “We have a good lead but I want you to confirm it before we strike. I will contact you within the next few days.”  
“Very well, Shiki-san. Depending on how short-notice it is, my usual fees apply.” Izaya kept his voice pleasant but neutral, nothing about it indicating that he was playing the other man.  
“Of course,” Shiki said, a sardonic smile twisting those lips.  
Izaya shrugged. “No one likes to work for free, Shiki-san. Does this conclude our business for today?”  
“Yes,” Shiki said. “As per usual, we will drop you off where we picked you up.”  
They rode in silence for a few minutes until the car drew to a stop on a busy street. Izaya stepped out and stretched as he watched the sleek black vehicle disappear in traffic. It was dark outside already and the nights were getting colder. Izaya drew his fur-lined coat around himself and started walking, his eyes flitting to and fro, observing every detail of his beloved humans on the way back to his apartment.  
  
  
When Izaya got a call from Shiki the next day, it was very short notice indeed. He delegated some of the digital research to Namie while he did the legwork. It would draw too much attention if he sent a woman like her down to the docks. Izaya sighed as he furtively glanced around a corner of the run-down area. There were no security cameras here, or he could have surveyed this place from the comfort of his office chair. Hacking the dock system was simple enough. However, he could definitely see the appeal of these old warehouses for someone on the run.  
The guy was careful, alright, but not careful enough. He had distinctive habits and tastes, and everyone knows how hard it is to shake a habit. Even harder if it happens to be addictive. Izaya’s lips twisted in distaste. Such an ugly habit, smoking.  
_’Then why do you hang around heavy smokers like Shiki-san and that Heiwajima?’_ he could hear Namie’s voice in his head.  
“Shut up, Namie,” he murmured, toeing the smattering of cigarette butts on the ground before crouching down to inspect them. Pursing his lips, he gingerly lifted one up with the tips of his fingers to inspect what was left of the brand name. Gold Flake. What a tacky, pretentious alias for a slow suicide. But he supposed it fit a guy who thought he could pull one over the yakuza. Certainly not something a docks worker would smoke. Now he just had to follow the nicotine crumb trail to the source.  
  
After three hours of sneaking around and confirming a few hunches, Izaya returned to his office, had Namie make him a cup of coffee, and texted Shiki, simply informing him that the guy wasn’t where the Awakusu thought. Shiki was not pleased, but that wasn’t Izaya’s problem. On the contrary: since his own men had botched the job of finding the traitor, Shiki handed it over to the info broker.  
  
Izaya smirked as he received the assignment. His research earlier had merely been due diligence, confirming what he had already guessed. But why would he give up that intel to Shiki for free, especially after the other had taken away Izaya’s mandate and handed it over to his incompetent subordinates? No, making Shiki pay extra fees for ‘short-notice work’ to gather info that he could have bought a day earlier at a cheaper rate was simply too delicious an opportunity to pass up. Izaya chuckled. Yes, he supposed he had his own set of dangerous habits.  
  
He let Shiki stew for a good hour before calling him with the correct address and a request to tag along for the hit. Shiki politely declined and asked about the best access route instead.  
“Ne Namie-san, isn’t this exciting?” Izaya spun in his chair, enjoying the faint sense of nausea.  
“Absolutely thrilling,” she deadpanned without looking up from the architectural blueprints she was studying. Izaya would check her work later and send the marked up plans to Shiki. The Awakusu were planning to strike in the hours before dawn.  
  
“I wish I could be there when they actually go and grab the guy. It’s no fun to do all the planning and the work and not get to see the results.” He couldn’t help the pout on his face. Shiki hadn’t even really considered his offer to come along.  
Namie snorted. “Are you really that eager to see them blow that guy’s brains out? Or sink him into the harbor? Because you know that’s what’s going to happen.”  
Izaya hummed. ”I kind of hope that Shiki-san will be a little more inventive than that. But whichever way he handles it, it will tell me something about his character. Having to watch the gory bits would be worth it for that, ne?”  
She frowned and finally looked up. “Why do you care so much?”  
  
“Isn’t it obvious, Namie-san?” He felt a grin tug at his mouth. “I love humans. Loving their joy and happiness and kindness is easy. But I love everything about them. Their hatred. Their jealousy. Their pettiness. Their dark desires and how they beat themselves up for feeling them. How they resist temptation, or give in to it. Their willingness to kill. How they will beg for their miserable lives. All of it… all of it is beautiful to me.” He danced around the edge of the desk and crowded her where she was still seated in her chair. She stiffened, but didn’t shrink from him. The disgust in her eyes was exquisite.  
“Do you hate me, Namie? Do you think I’m despicable?”  
“You are,” she said, her voice unwavering, her eyes still trained on his. “But I don’t hate you. You’re not worthy of such a strong emotion.”  
“Oh Namie,” he purred, hiding the sting of her words. “Can’t you see we’re the same? We both like to experiment with the human form. Neither of us empathizes with the pain of our subjects. Both of us feel a love that will never be returned. Isn’t this beautiful?”  
  
Namie finally pushed him away and got up. “Stop comparing yourself to me. I’m done here for the night.” She gathered her things. There was a slight tremble to her fingers and Izaya laughed.  
“Namie-san, running away really doesn’t suit you.”  
“I’m not running,” she said, holding the door. “I’m going home. You don’t pay me well enough to listen to this bullshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, I love writing Izaya being a little shit. (I also want to write Shikizaya at some point but I'm waiting for the right idea.)  
> Anyway, please let me know what you think! I'm not sure what to expect concerning the reception of this one. Good remarks or bad, vent it in a comment :)


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks later, the weather turned biting cold. Bitter winds rushed through the streets, finding their way through scarves and gloves to chill faces and fingers. Izaya amused himself by noting how Namie muffled herself in more layers of clothing by the day. Two scarves, one of them looking more like a carpet. A hat. Gloves. A coat, then a longer coat. Fluffy boots… it took her about two minutes to unravel herself in the warmth of his apartment before she could begin work, and even then, he noted that she hit the backspace button quite a lot in the first fifteen minutes or so, indicating typos caused by stiff fingers.

Izaya took a sip of his coffee, the last one of the day he would be making himself. “Ne, Namie-san. How do you fancy Russia?”  
She gave him a suspicious look. “Not terribly much. Why do you ask?”  
“I’ve been playing with the idea of going over there for the holidays. It’s still about a good month hence, so I’m not sure, but I’ve been invited.” He was turning a chess piece over and over between the fingers of his free hand.  
“Somebody invited _you_? I guess Christmas miracles do happen.”  
“So mean,” he whined, ruining the tone with the flattered look on his face.  
“I want to return the favor, make some good karma for a change. So I’m extending the invitation to you. I’ll have to close the office during my absence anyway.”  
Namie’s typing never stopped. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got enough cold weather and bad company in Japan, no need to travel overseas for that.”  
“Right,” Izaya sneered. “You’re going to spend the holiday with your dear brother. How has that been working out?”  
The clatter of Namie’s typing grew louder. “As I’m sure you know, he’s still with that fake-faced skank.”

Izaya laughed. He couldn’t help it. It had been Namie’s idea to give the girl that face, after all. The whole situation was just too funny.  
“Don’t you think you should grow up and get over that obsession already?” he said.  
Namie snorted. “Says the man who wants to wake up an undead head so it’ll take him to Valhalla as some sort of warrior. Sorry, Izaya-san, but you’re a coward, not a soldier.”  
“I just want confirmation,” he said. “I just want to know there’s _something_ after death. I don’t need to experience it first hand this year or even the next. I just want a peek.”  
“Humans don’t get to have that sort of knowledge,” she said. “That would defeat the point of faith.”

“Are you religious now?” he mocked.  
“No,” she said. Her voice and typing were calm again. “I don’t really care either way. But you do. You are so desperate to believe in something that you have to pretend not to. You fake atheism to hide your fear of death.”  
“This conversation bores me,” he said, feigning nonchalance, and got up to stretch. As if by working his muscles, he could work the irritation out of his body. He reached for his fur-lined coat. “I’m going to Ikebukuro to play with Shizu-chan for a bit. Can you make hot-pot for tonight?”  
She shot him a knowing smirk. “No. I’m neither your cook nor your friend, Izaya-san.”  
“Thanks Namie-san, see you later!” he lilted and was out the door.

 

Izaya knew it was cold out, but he barely felt it. He really did not appreciate _being seen_ \- a desire of his humans that he would never understand. The idea of somebody gazing into one’s soul, down to the bottom where the dirt gathered and turned to mucky ichor over the years, sent a shudder through him. There was nothing romantic about it - romance lay in imagining things, not in knowing them. Predictably, there was little romance in Izaya’s life. Knowledge was by far preferable. Which led back to his maddening problem, his fear of un-being, only rivalled by his urge to have an occasional fling with the possibility of death.

“Izaaaayaaaa-kuuuuun! Didn’t I tell you to stay the fuck out of Ikebukuro, haaah?”  
Izaya turned around. There he was, the personification of violence, the thrilling prospect of Izaya’s demise. Metal groaned as the blond in the bartender suit ripped a stop sign out of the asphalt and rapidly erased the distance between them with angry strides of his long legs. The crowds scattered. Izaya’s pulse raced, driving adrenalin through his body. He felt undeniably, indisputably _alive_.  
“Hello, Shizu-chan,” he purred. “I missed you.”  
Shizu-chan did not even bother telling him to shut up, or not to call him by that name. He swung the sign and Izaya ducked, feeling air rush by millimeters from the top of his head. That was close. The monster must have been pissed off already.  
Izaya ran, enjoying the burn in his muscles. Shizuo went for the usual suspects: vending machines, trash cans, a lamppost made into a spear. Izaya dodged, mocked and laughed. He threw a knife at Shizuo, delighted when the brute simply bit through the blade. He kept getting better. Izaya knew that at some point, Shizu-chan would overtake him; Izaya’s body would be unable to keep up. But their dance was too delicious. He couldn’t bear to end it for a mundane reason like that.

Izaya climbed a fire escape and reached the roof, the monster hot on his heels. He ran and jumped, foregoing his usual flips and showy moves. The monster was too fast to leave room for anything but bare efficiency.  
“Flea! Stop so I can tear you apart!” the beast roared.  
“You’re simply too uncoordinated to catch me, Shizu-chan,” Izaya turned his head to call over his shoulder.  
He stumbled and fell, rolling and getting back to his feet in one smooth motion. His heart leapt, breath searing his lungs. No damage done, but Shizu-chan was too close now and he’d lost momentum. The edge of the roof was right ahead. The gap between this building and the next was substantial, but there was no way back. Izaya jumped, pushing off with all his strength. He could tell as soon as his toes left behind the security of concrete for the wind-swept expanse of air that it wouldn’t be enough.

_Shit. Is this it?_

Fear twisted his stomach. He reached out with his fingertips, brushing the edge of the opposite roof. He couldn’t grab it. His body collided painfully with steel and glass. He tasted blood as he slid downwards. The wall was slightly convex, courtesy of some monstrosity of modern architecture. Izaya dug in his fingers and spread his feet, trying to find purchase. If he wasn’t wearing gloves, he would have burnt off a layer of skin. He held on to the first thing he could grab at, which was a narrow windowsill. The jolt of his halted fall reverberated through his shoulders. Blood rushed in his ears, his pulse hammered all the way to his fingertips. Izaya glanced down. His feet dangled far above the next ledge he could put them on. His arms shook.

He looked back up, meeting the ardent stare of the beast’s amber eyes as they glared down from the edge of the roof. The monster was showing its teeth in a feral grin.  
“No running away for you this time, Izaya-kun.”  
Izaya’s fingers were trembling as he gnashed his teeth. He couldn’t hold on much longer.  
“Shizu-chan.”  
“Are you asking for help, flea? ‘Cause I won’t give you any.”  
Izaya’s strength gave out and he slid, picking up speed. He could see Shizuo’s face growing smaller above him, shock mixing with victory, and then something odd, something almost like despair. His feet hit something protruding from the wall and he flipped, thrown off balance. He felt hard bursts of pain in almost every part of his body, the world whipping by him in a blur.  
Then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for making it this far :) So, the inciting event has happened, and on Shizuo's birthday, too! Not sure how he's liking his present though...  
> I keep hurting Izaya in fics even though I have a soft spot for him. Sorry? I dunno. Maybe it's the only way he can learn.  
> The next chapter is written but I don't know when it will be up. I need to do a bunch of revision and research because I suck at describing injuries and I want this to be at least semi-realistic.  
> Anyway, please let me know what you think, I love hearing from you :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys... I needed to do quite a bit of work on this chapter before I felt comfortable sharing it. Injury description and the like is not my forte. I hope it sounds plausible but if there are any med students or other knowledgable folks reading this and you see any glaring errors, feel free to point them out to me.  
> In any case, I hope you enjoy!

Izaya heard the rhythmic beeping before he opened his eyes and knew. This was not the afterlife, simply a hospital. He remembered nothing about how he got here but other images came back, most notably the conflicted, almost regretful, expression on Shizuo’s face as he fell.  
How curious.  
Next was the pain.  
Izaya was no crybaby. The years he’d spent fighting Shizuo, taking hits and learning through experience, had made sure of that. But now, what felt like the majority of his body was screaming at him.  
He whimpered. He heard fabric rustling next to him and cracked open an eye. The brightness was blinding and he groaned, blinking and squinting.

“Welcome back, shithead.” Namie looked rumpled, as if she’d slept in her clothes.  
“Namie-san,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “Don’t tell me you stayed at my bedside all this time.”  
She snorted. “You haven’t been out that long.”  
“How long?”  
“You fell yesterday afternoon. It’s mid-morning now. So maybe fifteen hours?”  
He closed his eyes. “I feel like shit.”  
“You look it.” The quality of her voice changed. “But you were very lucky.”  
“Aww, were you worried Namie-san? Or were you already trying to decide what to wear to my funeral?”  
He opened his eyes again just to see the what kind of expression she’d wear. The light still made his head throb, but it was less pronounced now. Namie rolled her eyes. He could tell it was for show, yet was unable to read her beyond that. “As if I’d attend your funeral.”  
“Yes, who would,” Izaya mused. “It would probably be better for me to die in a ditch somewhere, ne?”  
“No reason to get so dramatic. You’ll be out of here in a few days. That’s only the beginning of course. You have weeks and months of physical therapy to look forward to.”  
“I often forget that you’re a doctor of sorts, too. Kind of like Shinra. Certainly just as batshit.”  
“Kishitani?” she laughed. “Our talents differ substantially. But anyway. I’ll go tell the real doctor that you’re awake. He can inform you about how you fucked yourself up with that stupid bartender-obsession of yours.” She left. He didn’t ask how she knew about the circumstances of his fall.

Izaya looked down. Time to assess the damage. His left leg was up in a cast. He felt something odd around his back, restricting him. How did he even survive that fall? He tried to lift his left arm but hissed in pain. All of it was encased in a cast. He was boxed in from every angle and too sluggish to move. Breathing hurt.  
Oh, this was gonna suck. Badly. But hey, at least he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t ready to find out what came after. He hated it though - how unchangingly human he felt. How weak, how fragile. So far from the god he aspired to be.

The door opened and Namie entered with the doctor.  
“How are you feeling, Orihara-san?” the man asked. He had a kind, but tired-looking face.  
“Felt better,” Izaya quipped. “But at least I’m alive. Thank you, sensei.”  
The doctor, Nakahara according to the name tag on his lapel, shook his head. “To be honest, it’s miraculous your injuries aren’t worse. By all rights you should have broken your neck. There is a fissure in one of your vertebrae, from when you hit your back tumbling down. You have to wear a back brace for now, but I expect it to heal without complications. Your spinal cord was not affected. Your back muscles took a heavy hit, so you will be in pain, but with the right therapy you will regain your previous agility.”  
The doctor consulted a sheet on his clipboard. “You’ve got two broken ribs, but thankfully they didn’t stab a lung. However, there is heavy abdominal bruising, a few lacerations on your head, your left tibia broke in two places when you hit the ground, and your left arm… well.” Nakahara cleared his throat and Izaya could see the exhaustion in his otherwise composed features.  
“It was broken in a rather more complicated way. An open break, both the ulna and the radius. Setting it was a real piece of work, to be honest. You will eventually be able to do everyday tasks without pain, but it will take time and I’m afraid there will be permanent scarring.”

Izaya swallowed and thought of his knives. Of all the typing he was used to doing.  
“Is there any nerve damage? Will I be able to move my fingers?”  
Nakahara frowned. “We have no reason to suspect nerve damage. Do you feel any numbness there?”  
Izaya shook his head. “Just pain, and I can’t move them.”  
“In that case, your nerves are fine. You shouldn’t move your fingers though. It upsets the arm. You need to come in for a check-up in three weeks, and we’ll decide then whether the screws in your bones need to be removed or not.”  
Izaya swallowed. The idea of foreign metal objects in his body was rather unappealing.

Nakahara smiled. “Orihara-san, I know that this is a lot to take in. But the body’s ability to repair itself is astounding, though it will take time and exercise. Your muscles were damaged and you will not be able to move them while the bones heal. They need to be rebuilt afterwards. If you do a lot of typing and the like, your arm will most definitely hurt in the beginning and you will not be able to move as smoothly and dexterously as you used to. It will get better though. You are left-handed, I believe?”  
Izaya nodded.  
“Well, I suggest learning to do certain things with your right hand instead, especially in the beginning.”  
Izaya sighed, although the idea of being ambidextrous held a certain appeal. He could already handle a knife with his right hand, why not go all the way.

“What about travel?” he asked. “I’ve been invited overseas for the holidays.”  
The doctor hummed and hawed. “It really depends on your progress, so it’s too early to say. If you can go at all, you will need proper care over there. And of course you won’t be able to go on your own.”  
The doctor looked to Namie. “Your assistant assured me that you would want to be removed from here as soon as possible.”  
“That is correct.” He did not enjoy being a sitting duck. He was sure that once he got a hold of his phone, there’d be a shitload of missed calls from Shiki. That would have to wait until after he was discharged though.  
“You will need to hire a caretaker then, especially if there are stairs in the house.”  
Izaya sighed and considered moving over to one of his other apartments.  
“This is a pain.”  
“That’s life,” Nakahara said. “Now let me check your vitals and bandages, and then I’ll let you get some more rest.”

 

A few days later, a grumpy Namie was pushing Izaya’s wheelchair up a ramp towards his apartment building. Izaya was decked out in his usual coat - it had survived the fall and he’d had Namie bring it to dry-cleaning. Neither of them spoke as they waited for the elevator, then rode up to his floor and entered the apartment.  
“Shall I pick up the clothes for you?” she asked.  
“I’ll walk up there myself.”  
She scoffed. “No you won’t. Even if you ignore the arm and leg, you’ve got a spine injury, idiot.”  
“I’ll pack my own clothes,” he hissed, glaring up at her. “Hand me the crutch.”  
“No. Glower at me all you want. But there is no need to get so worked up over this. If you’re worried about privacy, or about me packing your underwear or something ridiculous like that - you will have no privacy for months to come. So why get so hung up on this?” Namie’s normally expressionless face was twisted with fury and disdain. He was relieved to find no pity in her eyes.  
His pride smarted. Using the bathroom and washing at the hospital had been humiliating. Soon, it would not be anonymous nurses helping him with that. It would be Namie. Namie, seeing him weak and vulnerable and disgusting. He wanted to at least be able to do something simple like packing on his own. He looked at the stairs, steps he’d bounded up and down countless times, and they appeared to him as daunting as a mountain range. He cringed just from imagining the pain, and how bothersome it would be with the restriction of the spinal brace. The effect of the pills he’d taken at the hospital was wearing off, and he wasn’t allowed a new dose for another couple hours.

“Fuck. Fine.” He rubbed his temple with his good hand. “Just pack some more black shirts. There should also be sweatpants somewhere at the back of the closet. Bathroom products should be self-explanatory, and the other apartment will be stocked with the basics anyway.”  
“Alright,” she said, much more quietly. She wheeled him around, towards the windows, before stepping away. Izaya could hear the thudding of her feet as she ascended the stairs with ease.  
He gazed out over Shinjuku and fought the hot lump in his throat.

 

After the clothes and other necessities, there was work to pack for. Two laptops, some gear for hacking, the most important external hard drives, the chessboard. The dullahan’s head. Some files that had not yet been digitized.  
Izaya called a taxi. The apartment he had chosen to make his main abode for the next few weeks was also in Shinjuku, but further away from Ikebukuro. It was a two-bedroom, no upper floor or sunken areas, much less stylish than the other one. Namie, after much persuasion of both the wordy and monetary kind, had agreed to stay with him. Shinra would also stop by every now and again. 

They got settled and Namie cooked while Izaya took his pills and strenuously maneuvered himself to lay down on the sofa. The pills did help with the pain, but his brain felt painfully slow as a side-effect. It was annoying. He was supposed to get work done before his trip to Russia, but it didn’t look as if that was going to happen as soon as he’d hoped.  
He picked up his phone. The screen was slightly cracked, but the case was made to withstand a ten meter drop. He plugged it into a charger and turned it on.  
As expected, he was flooded with missed calls and messages. He’d get to that tomorrow. For the time being, it was probably for the best to call off all assignments except for Shiki’s. Izaya briefly skimmed Shiki’s messages. Apparently, he’d had some of his men watch the hospital in case a rival group tried to off him. Izaya’s stomach sank. He hadn’t noticed them. The pills, probably.

Part of him was grateful for Shiki’s protection. However, he wasn’t naive enough to think that it came for free, or out of some sort of personal attachment. He was simply a long-term investment of the Awakusu-kai.  
He dialed Shiki’s number. The executive picked up on the second ring.  
“Hello, Shiki-san.” Izaya did not let his exhaustion show, but he didn’t have the energy to add his usual purr.  
“Orihara-san. I trust you have been patched up and discharged, then?” Shiki’s voice sounded unaffected and calm, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  
“Yes. Much obliged for your security detail, Shiki-san. I’m afraid I am not yet back to my usual agile self, though.” The back brace was constricting him and he tried to shift around, without success.  
Shiki hummed, the sound reverberating through the line pleasantly to distract Izaya from the pain. “When you are able, there are some research jobs I would like you to cover for us. It should all be doable without the need to leave your new abode.”

Izaya tensed. _When_ , not _if_. Izaya could take it as a compliment to his abilities, a sign of trust, but he was no fool. Shiki’s men had probably tailed their taxi, too. What Shiki liked, Shiki kept close. Izaya would do the same in his place.  
“Of course, Shiki-san. Send me the details and I will take a look as soon as possible. However, my head is foggy with medication right now, and I do not work while mentally impaired. It would be an affront to my best client.”  
Shiki chuckled and Izaya smirked. “You know your limits, Orihara-san. I trust you won’t overstep them. Let Yagiri-san take care of you.”  
The line went dead and Izaya scowled. “Contrary to popular opinion, I _can_ take care of myself.” He heard a snort from the kitchen but ignored it. He had bigger problems. Shiki had eyes on him, and he expected results. Well, fine. Working would probably help take his mind off the pain and boredom. Still, the thought of having to do everything right-handed was a pain of its own.

Izaya leaned further back into the cushions and sighed. He thought of Moscow and St. Petersburg. Shiki be damned. He would not be cheated out of his getaway by his body or his sort-of boss. He closed his eyes. The sounds of Namie puttering about the kitchen were oddly comforting. The knife rhythmically cutting though vegetables - clack clack clack - then scraping it all into a pot. The bubbling of the broth.

The domesticity of it was ironic. They didn’t even like one another, they just ended up together. Two tainted peas in an ugly pod. The false peacefulness did not sit well with Izaya, so he turned on the TV. There was nothing on but stupid talk shows and the news. Izaya perked up when he recognized a certain rabid blond on the screen. Looked like Shizu-chan had gone berserk again and torn up half the street. The city was suing for damages. Izaya snorted. Shizu-chan had nothing to pay with. And he’d been wrong - his life was no more quiet with Izaya out of it. What an idiot protozoan.  
Izaya frowned. Coming to think of it, he did not like the idea that Shizu-chan’s life continued unchanged whether Izaya was part of it or not at all. There was nothing to be done though. He needed to gain back his body first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always feel kinda sorry for doing this shit to Izaya... also, I had assumed he was right-handed and butchered the right side of his body, before I googled it just to make sure and read that he's left-handed. So I had to change things around a bit.  
> Please let me know what you think :) I know this story is a bit niche, so comments always make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay on this chapter!! I had to do so much revision, writing new scenes and editing, I thought I would never finish...  
> A note on tags, warnings and rating for this story. I have decided not to add any more tags for content that normally would be tagged. The reason is that it would spoil what I am trying to do here. Those tags would be more informative content-tags than warning-tags anyway. If there is anything that could be triggering, I will mention it in the notes for the relevant chapters. That being said, it holds true that no archive warnings apply for this fic, so no major character death, no rape/non-con, no graphic depictions of violence. However, this fic is still rated mature, so read at your own discretion. This chapter is one of the reasons for this rating. You'll know why when you get there. If it makes you uncomfortable, feel free to skip the scene. Content-wise, you'll be fine to rejoin the story in the next chapter.

The first two weeks of his recovery were mind-numbingly boring to Izaya. The back brace itched, his casks itched, he was in pain and irritable. He could have dealt with just his arm and leg, plus the bruises. But the back brace was hard to get used to. He couldn’t bend his spine at all, couldn’t even be comfortable on the couch without a mountain of pillows to support his back and keep it straight. The only time the brace came off during the first two weeks was under the shower.

In spite of that, showering became his most hated chore of the day. His casts could not get wet, so he needed help washing. Namie took off the back brace and wrapped the casts up in plastic. There was a stool in the shower for him to sit on in his boxers while Namie washed him. She stayed fully clothed, no matter how damp she got in the process. Her only concession to the situation was that she tied her hair up. Izaya liked to watch her when she unraveled it as she stepped out of the shower, dark waves cascading down her back. Once she was gone, he washed the rest of himself awkwardly with his right hand.

In the beginning, there had been moments when he fell, or his casts got tangled in his clothes as he tried to dress. He had to call for Namie in several embarrassing situations, hatred and anger boiling in his blood. Namie was never anything less than professional then, no matter how much they bickered about trivial things.

And bicker they did. From what type of food Namie should cook, to whether there should be music in the apartment, to whether or not Izaya was ready to use a computer. Izaya instigated many of the fights, but was too tired to sustain them.  
Some days, he was too tired for most things, even when he’d just woken up. Sometimes, he was even too tired to be properly angry.

 

After a few days of this, Izaya was afraid they would kill each other simply for something to do. He felt too groggy to work on Shiki’s assignments, and there was no office work for Namie to take care of. Watching her walk around the apartment like a tiger pacing a cage could not entertain him for very long. She seemed unsettled and unhappy with the change of scenery. She also kept checking her phone, though she never seemed happy with the results.

“Ne, Namie-san, what kind of films do you like?”  
She sat down on the sofa stiffly, phone still in hand and visibly annoyed, her slipper-clad foot twitching with unspent energy. “I’ve never had any real interest in movies or TV shows.”  
“Hoh?” Izaya perked up at that. “We could watch some classics then. I’ve been meaning to rewatch them for years, but of course, important and busy personage that I am, I could never find the time.”  
Namie snorted.  
“I have collector’s boxes. Why don’t you go fetch them from the other apartment, Namie-san?”  
Namie rolled her eyes, but let him give her instructions on how to find the boxes before picking up the keys and leaving.

The apartment felt absolutely silent with her gone. So silent and still, Izaya was afraid to make a noise. At that thought, of course, he laughed. The sound was hollow and terrible in the quiet and his ribs hurt, turning the laugh into a cough. He held on to his spluttering body with his unhurt hand as his mind sang at him, _pathetic pathetic pathetic_.

 

They watched old Universal horror films until way past midnight that day. Namie drank red wine she’d stolen from Izaya’s apartment, while Izaya was forced to stick to tea. It became a habit after that: preparing a snack, sitting on the couch, watching. They didn’t share a taste or sense of humor, but they _did_ tend to scoff at the same bits. Sometimes, he simply liked to watch Namie’s face as she reacted to the events on the screen. Izaya wasn’t sure how many classic films and series they had gone through in these two weeks, but he felt knowledgeable enough to write a scholarly essay on the topic.

At the end of the second week, Namie deemed him ready for some light therapy. Shinra dropped by for a bit and confirmed her assessment. He was very distant as he examined Izaya’s body. Izaya tried not to let it irk him that the only person he considered a friend seemed entirely unbothered by his condition.  
“How’s Shizu-chan?” Izaya asked.  
“Much the same,” Shinra answered with his pleasant but empty smile. “Still angry. Still spending too much time with my dear Celty.”  
He then launched into his usual ode to his beloved, which Izaya ignored.

 

Namie crossed her arms. “I will not be your massage therapist.”  
“But Namie-san,” Izaya whined, “I don’t want some stranger to do it.”  
“I don’t care. I’m not qualified to do this, even if I wanted to, which I don’t. I’ll bring you to therapy in your wheelchair and pick you up when you’re done. I’ll even find you a good massage therapist nearby. But I won’t do it myself.”  
Something in Izaya’s chest shriveled at the idea of being pushed around in a wheelchair out in public. “You agreed to do the proper physical therapy later, why can’t you do this too?”  
Namie rolled her eyes. “It’s not the same. Already for that, I’d prefer if you found someone else, but I can handle it. I will not be massaging you though and that’s final.”

Two days later, Izaya found himself sitting in his wheelchair, stomach tense with nerves. He felt slightly nauseous.  
Namie bundled herself in her usual layers before approaching Izaya with his fur-lined coat.  
“No. There’s another coat in my bedroom closet.”  
Namie raised her brows, but did as he asked. The coat she returned with was thicker, shorter, and lacked any distinguishing features. She folded Izaya’s cast close to his chest, put his good arm through the sleeve, and buttoned up.  
Izaya pointed to the hat rack. “Help me put on the gray one.” It was a beret of sorts, with a brim that shielded his features. Izaya knew he looked ridiculous, but at least he wouldn’t be recognized. Just a cripple hiding his face.

Nevertheless, his heart raced when Namie wheeled him out of the building. Two weeks. Two weeks all couped up, and this was his first outing. Izaya kept his eyes on the ground in front of them, conscious of the glances of his humans sticking to him, then wandering off, dismissing him. The wheelchair creaked slightly as Namie pushed it along. Whenever they crossed the street and Namie pushed his chair over the textured yellow lines on the pavement which marked up the road for blind people, the reverberations traveled uncomfortably through Izaya’s arm and leg. He grit his teeth. When he peeked out from under his hat, he only saw a sea of legs and hips. His vantage point was too close to the ground to study his humans’ faces.  
Hollowness ate away at him, spilling into his blood, coursing all through his battered body. He would rather be back on his couch, uselessly vegetating, than endure this parody of an outing a minute longer than he had to.

Izaya barely paid any attention to the proceedings when they finally reached the massage therapist’s office, letting Namie handle the logistics of it. The therapist was a middle-aged, plain woman. Nothing of particular interest showed on her face, but at least she didn’t look at him as though he was pitiful or a broken thing that needed fixing. It was all business. She helped him take off his sweater and back brace without making a fuss, then positioned him, explained the proceedings, and started massaging his back. Contrary to what he’d thought, the massage was not pleasurable. His muscles were so sore and cramped that the procedure was painful as some of the tension was coaxed out of him. Izaya gritted his teeth and hid his face, glad that Namie was outside in the waiting area and couldn’t see him. It wasn’t that he cared what she thought of him. He simply hated anyone reading honest emotions off his face, and there was no hiding from this, no way to ignore the pain.  
Every day for the next week, Namie would wheel Izaya down the street, would expose him to the brushes of strangers’ eyes, then the firmer touch of a stranger’s hands. At the end of the week, Izaya had to admit that his back did feel better. Time for his check-up at the hospital.

 

“The fissure in your vertebrae has healed,” Nakahara-sensei said as he studied Izaya’s x-ray pictures. He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He looked less tired than he had three weeks ago.  
“Does that mean the torture device can come off permanently?” Izaya asked.  
“You should still wear the brace two or three hours a day for the next week, simply to make sure you have good posture,” Nakahara advised, “but it should be fine otherwise. Keep seeing that massage therapist once or twice a week. You can also start with some regular physical therapy. I hear Yagiri-san is going to oversee this?”  
Izaya nodded. “Yes. She is fully capable.”  
Nakahara’s smile twisted. Izaya found it hard to tell whether he was annoyed or amused. “You really don’t like being treated by strangers, do you?”  
Izaya’s mask of a smile stayed perfectly in place. “No. You’re not so bad, though.”  
Nakahara laughed. “Flattery won’t get you out of therapy or those casts any faster.”  
His face settled into calm as he looked at the rest of the x-rays. “The plaster cast for your leg can be removed next week. You’ll get a lighter cast that you can take off to shower. I’m still not satisfied with your arm though.” His brows drew together. “It needs to stay completely immobile for at least another two weeks. I also recommend that you don’t have the screws removed. There is no reason for it really, they will not bother you in your daily life. Your arm has endured enough trauma, don’t add to it.”  
Izaya swallowed. “I’ll think about it.”

Screws in his arm for the rest of his life. Metal hidden away in his body. Foreign objects underneath his skin. Izaya took a few deep breaths to calm his roiling stomach and steered his mind down a different lane.  
Nakahara had a look at his ribs and a few of his last fading bruises, then deemed him ready to go. Izaya could not get the hospital smell out of his nose fast enough.

 

“I hate you, “ Izaya hissed a few days later when Namie forced him through his back exercises.  
“Shut up you whiny baby. This is your own fault.”  
Therapy was grueling; Izaya suspected that it would only get worse when his arm and leg were healed enough to start there. Frustration bubbled hot in his chest. The exercises were simple: small movements, holding certain positions. How was it possible that everything was so hard now? He’d been doing this shit all his life, he’d been twisting and flipping himself around in parkour since he was a teenager.  
“Try again,” Namie said. “Not like this!” She repositioned him where he was lying on his belly, keeping his hips flat on the ground. “You’re avoiding the proper muscles and using your abs instead. Stop being so lazy.”  
“I’m not. I’m trying here!”  
“Well, try harder. Lift your upper body with your back and shoulders.”  
Izaya groaned. Namie was enjoying this way too much.  
“Ne, Namie-san, how’s your brother doing?” He glanced over his shoulder. Namie’s expression was carefully neutral.  
“Fine, I think. He has exams coming up soon.”  
“Have you seen him?” Izaya prodded with a nasty smile. “Has there been any change in his feelings towards you?”  
Namie remained silent, but her eyes narrowed. Her glare was at least as poisonous as Izaya’s smile.  
“He’s not picking up the phone when his sister calls, is he?” Izaya taunted.  
Namie jabbed her finger into a sore point on his back and he howled.  
“Stop poking your nose into my business. My private life doesn’t concern you.”  
“I’m just trying to make smalltalk, Namie-san,” he panted. “Can we stop the torture session now?”  
“We’re done when I say we’re done. And there are still fifteen minutes left.”

 

Izaya missed going outside, _really_ venturing into the world on his own feet, more with every passing day. It was a constant, aching itch in his bones. He used to go out for walks almost on a daily basis even if he had no business that required him to leave his office. He loved spending time among his beloved humans, blending in, not sticking out sorely in his wheelchair. Caged in these four walls, he was slowly going crazy. Namie had lowered the dose of his painkillers as recommended by Nakahara-sensei, so at least his brain no longer felt like mush, but he felt trapped in his own body, growing more impatient with the healing process by the day. At least he could now hobble to the bathroom unassisted and take off the back brace for most of the day.  
Still, he felt himself slipping. He did a few online jobs for Shiki but his longing to go outside, to walk for hours until his muscles burned pleasantly, grew ever worse.

When Izaya could no longer stand being in his own head, he distracted himself by observing the only human regularly at his disposal. He’d always enjoyed watching Namie, but there was something different about it now. Back at the old apartment, her movements had been stiff and sparing. She never exerted any extra energy, every move was perfectly efficient. Now, there was a grace to her movements. They were more… rounded? Natural? Izaya frowned. It was difficult to pin down the change. Something… not _soft_ , there was nothing soft about Namie, but… something about the unthinking way she moved around the kitchen, opening cabinets while bumping drawers closed with a move of her hips and stirring a pot all at the same time. The way she walked while reading and evaded all the furniture without looking. Even her sprawl on the couch had somehow changed. Was it familiarity with her surroundings?

Was Namie… relaxing? Was she letting down her guard? Did she no longer see him as a threat? Anger pulsed through his veins at that thought. She should know better than to fear his body over his mind.  
No, Namie was not that stupid. It had to be something else. Something about how their bickering had lost some of its bite. Izaya frowned. Surely that couldn’t be right? And yet.  
For all the times Izaya had provoked Namie with how he thought they were alike, the idea that the similarity went both ways, that Namie was having an influence on him, was distinctly unappealing.

 

In his dreams, Izaya ran through the streets of Ikebukuro. He vaulted across obstacles, scaled buildings, jumped from rooftop to rooftop as the sun went down. Crowds of commuters passed underneath him while he was like a god, floating above his world. It was absolute freedom.

Izaya woke up to absolute loneliness. He had to admit this much to himself, at least. He tended to neglect his physical needs and see his body as a tool for his mind’s use. Parkour and the occasional fight were his usual release. Without that… he ached for physical contact. He hated it, but there it was.  
Namie never touched him more than was absolutely necessary. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel if she went about it any other way. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched with anything akin to desire. And even then, it was just about getting off, nothing more. He’d never minded, had even preferred it that way. Still, for a man who claimed to love humans, he had precious little personal interaction with them. He had no ties worth mentioning.

The darkness in his heart roused and hungered, trailing an insatiable ache in its wake. The ichor of his soul was rising, intent on catching up with him. Ah, this was bad. Wasn’t he brought low enough yet? He lay the back of his unhurt wrist over his eyes and laughed quietly into the the empty room. Gray morning light filtered in through the windows. It would still be at least an hour until Namie came to get him for his shower. Izaya drifted off. He felt too empty to stay awake.

 

“Get up, Izaya-san. Or I’ll start calling you fleabag like that boy in the bartender suit you hate so much.” Izaya’s slumber had been fitful after waking early; his body felt groggy and stiff.  
“Kya, no reason to go that far, Namie-san,” Izaya teased. His mask of a smile was perfectly in place. “Help me into the shower, ne?”  
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” she mumbled.

They got settled as usual with Izaya on his stool, Namie crouched in front of him to wrap up his casts. Her hair obscured part of her face, falling smooth and shiny, nearly brushing his knee. His fingers itched to touch it. He dug his nails into his thigh instead.  
“Say Namie, would you like a night off to go on a date some time? It’s been nearly a month. Aren’t there some… things… urges… you need to take care of?”  
She laughed. “Are you seriously asking me about my sex life? Here?”  
He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about how neither of us gets out much.”  
Her arm that had been reaching for the showerhead sunk down again. She sat before him, hunched over, still in her pajamas. Her eyes were lowered and Izaya could not really make out her expression. She sighed and started gathering her hair.  
He covered her hand with his own. “Please. Leave it down?”  
She gulped. “Why?”  
“It looks nice,” he said. What was he doing?  
She looked up at that and the space between them seemed to shift. For the first time, Izaya was aware, truly aware, that he was in his boxer shorts, in front of a beautiful woman. In the shower. He reached out with trembling fingers to brush the hair back from her cheek, trailing over smooth skin.

“Stop,” Namie said. Her voice sounded broken. Her eyes were for once not closed off and cold, but frighteningly open. Maybe there was something soft about her after all. Izaya knew he shouldn’t but he kept brushing his thumb across her cheek. Just to see, just to push a little bit more. Could he glimpse beneath Namie’s mask? After a few seconds, she reached up and grasped his fingers, pushing them away.  
She had not slapped them off.

“Namie-san,” he trailed off. She trembled and got up, turning away from him. After a moment, her shoulders straightened. When she turned back around, nothing was visible of her slip-up.  
“Tell me if the water is too cold,” she said as she turned on the shower spray. It was quite a bit cooler than usual, but Izaya said nothing. He was grateful for it. As she washed him with the soft cloth, he was painfully aware of her presence, of the trail of the cloth over his flesh. As always, his remaining article of clothing got soaked by the water. Namie moved to the back of the chair to shampoo his hair. Her fingers and nails massaged his scalp and he gave a silent groan at the sensation. He leaned his head back so she could rinse out the suds. His nipples were hard, and they were not the only thing. He wasn’t sure whether he’d prefer her to notice or not. He only half understood what was even happening.

This was beyond embarrassing. He knew that Namie wasn’t interested. _He_ wasn’t even really interested. Not in her, surely not. But she was here, and he could feel it in her, the same darkness that at times threatened to swallow him. The howling in the void.  
She was taking her time rinsing his hair, trailing her fingers through it, twisting it. It had grown a bit longer than usual. He was used to cutting it himself, but with his arm in a cast…  
A light tug had him hissing in surprise as heat traveled down through his body. He leaned his head all the way back and opened his eyes. Namie was looking at him, her hair damp, the front of her pajama top wet from the errant spray of the water. Her fingers knotted in his hair and she pulled. His mouth fell open as he exhaled in a rush, dizzy from the mixture of pain and pleasure. He blinked droplets of water from his lashes; they trailed down his cheeks like tears.  
He was fully hard by now. There was no way she hadn’t noticed. He didn’t expect her to scream and run from the shower like a virgin teenage girl but he’d been sure she’d have a humiliating remark or two at the ready. Her gaze was steady and unreadable as she kept combing through and tugging at his hair. It shouldn’t feel so good. His entire body was humming with electricity, his abs clenched tight, and he knew that it would take embarrassingly little to get him off.  
“Namie.” He sounded raw and pitiful and he hated it.  
“Don’t talk,” she hissed and yanked his hair back hard. Izaya yelped and had to fight for his balance on the stool, but as ordered, he did not talk. He had an idea where this was headed.

Namie’s breathing had grown heavier. She’d put the showerhead back into the wall minutes ago to focus entirely on his hair. It was slicked back against his head and she kept it there, stroking it as she came closer, touching her front to his back as he sat. His head came to rest between her breasts and he shuddered. Her hands lay lightly on his shoulders before she let them roam down over his chest. He moaned when she grazed a nipple, sending a jolt through him. It was not enough, leaving him to ache and burn more than before. Slowly, her fingers inched down his stomach and towards the waistband of his boxers. Izaya couldn’t believe this was happening. He would have laughed had he not been so desperately turned on. Tendrils of Namie’s hair trailed down his upper body. When he glanced sideways, he could see her face right next to his as she leaned forward, could glimpse the glazed-over look in her eyes. One of her hands braced against his hip while the other kneaded him over his boxers. He moaned into her neck and she shivered, her breath stuttering. She grasped him and slowly began to stroke. Izaya’s eyelids fluttered. Every breath seared his throat. His mind was swimming. He clenched his hands around the edge of the shower seat as everything in him tensed. He was so close. Her fingers slipped into the boxers and moments later it was all over. He came with a gasp, shudders wracking him, his toes curling on the wet tiles.

Namie withdrew her hand and rinsed it under the spray. “Shower is over,” she said. The tremble in her voice was almost unnoticeable. “Clean yourself up.”  
She left the stall and grabbed a big towel for herself. The door slammed closed behind her.  
Izaya was still catching his breath. He laughed at his own patheticness. The slicked-back hair. The stature. He had no doubt about who Namie had imagined she was pleasuring just now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... it's done... please don't hate me?  
> I really don't know what kind of reaction to expect for this scene, and if I managed to express what I wanted to express. Some feedback would be much appreciated.  
> (And no, these moments between them will not become a regular thing)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, and thanks to those of you who are still reading :) I thought I could post this chapter earlier but getting the mood and reactions right was harder than I thought, and real life had me busy. I hope you enjoy!

Izaya wasn’t sure what to make of what had just transpired. He waited until his heartbeat calmed, cleaned up, and dried himself off. He put on fresh underwear and a robe, then maneuvered himself into his wheelchair. His stomach fluttered with apprehension; he admitted to himself that he had no idea what to expect. It was the most excitement he’d felt in a while.  
When Izaya rolled himself into the kitchen, Namie’s back was turned to him as she made breakfast. Her hair was wrapped up in a turban on her head and she was fully dressed. He got settled at the table while she puttered about. His legs felt like jelly but he was otherwise relaxed - his body, at least. He was for once not itching to move or go outside. His mind, however, was racing, trying to find the best angle for the confrontation ahead.

“Namie-san.”  
“What is it?” she didn’t turn around and he wondered if she was blushing. Probably not.  
“Will this become a regular thing now? Ravishing your employer in the shower?”  
She snorted. “You wish.”  
He didn’t reply, simply kept staring at her back as she aggressively cut something on a board. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. No reason to let Namie in on his confusion, though.  
The quiet stretched on. They’d discovered many types of silences between them since Namie started working for him, even more after they pretty much moved in together. This one was new. Izaya’s relaxed body was a thing of the past. Seconds before he would have opened his mouth to say something - anything, a stupid joke, a taunt - Namie stopped her cutting.  
“This was a mistake,” she said. “I let our proximity get to me and blurred the border between personal and professional. It will not happen again.”  
“Oh, I know what got to you,” Izaya said. When she turned around, he stroked a hand through his hair, pushing it back. Imitating a certain someone’s hairstyle. Her jaw tensed, and it was all the answer he needed. He smiled brightly, entrenching the gesture with as much smugness as possible. The answering anger burning in Namie’s eyes fed the feral, dark niche of his heart that wanted to push and push until he reached the limit, and possibly just a little beyond. He gathered himself before he got too carried away.  
“I don’t mind, you know,” he said smoothly, calmly. “We both seemed to get something out of it, although I feel like I got the better end of the deal. However, I’d be willing to rectify that, if you want.” His mouth curled, sensual with an edge of danger.  
Her hands tensed into fists. She was still holding the knife in her right. “I don’t want anything from you,” she hissed. “If you touch me, I’ll cut your dick off.”  
Izaya just smirked. “Whatever you say, Namie-san. I’ll be here. I’m talented at that type of service too, just so you know. A side-effect of all the observing I do.”  
With a growl, she turned back to the stove. Izaya shifted in his seat, the smirk falling from his face. He hated the idea of owing Namie some sort of favor. The awkwardness between them annoyed him. He’d gotten used to their domesticity and was surprisingly loath to see it interrupted, much less by something as silly and ultimately insignificant as a handjob. Two isolated people helping each other out. That was all. No reason to make such a big deal out of it.  
“Omu-rice would be great, Namie-san,” he said with fake cheer. “Can you draw a cat face on it with ketchup?”  
“This isn’t a maid café, asshole!”

 

Over the next few days, they returned to their previous routine. On the surface, at least. Underneath, the tension remained.Namie rarely met his eyes and didn’t talk to him more than strictly necessary. Not even to scold or annoy him - which actually annoyed him quite a bit, since there were times when he was purposefully making a pest of himself to get a rise out of her. To no avail. Instead, she was even more glued to her phone than usual, though the results of her aggressive texting seemed to leave something to be desired. In general, Namie appeared distracted and irritable, her movements once again jerky, signalling that she would rather be anywhere but here.

Namie also avoided touching him. Even in the shower, the only contact they had was through the washcloth. Namie’s hair was up in a strict bun. She looked kind of like an elementary school teacher, except without any of the expected kindness. The only skin contact of sorts they had was when she washed his hair. He did his best not to let it show, but it affected him much more than he liked to admit even to himself. It was just his head. It wasn’t as if she was caressing his chest or… other parts. But his heart raced, he had to focus on keeping his breathing regular, and the sensation of her nails gently scraping against his scalp travelled all the way down to his toes. Sometimes, he could ignore his reaction after Namie left. Other times, he had to clumsily relieve himself with his right hand. He was sick of this whole situation. They should just get even and then be adults about this matter by ignoring it and never bringing it up again.

One evening, they were both sitting on the couch, staring vacantly at the TV. The almost-companionship this had once implied was now absent. One more try to settle this and get it out of the way, he thought.  
“Ne, Namie-san.”  
“What?” she replied without looking at him. Her tone was cold with a hint of annoyance and boredom. Business as usual. He persisted anyway.  
“Have you changed your mind yet?” He calibrated his voice into something silky and suggestive.  
“What do you mean?” Her tone was perfectly even and she still didn’t deign to glance his way.  
Irritation prickled up his spine. He leaned in, his lips much closer to her neck and ear than could be considered appropriate between employer and employee, and whispered. “Should I return the favor from the other day?” Her shoulders hunched and she turned to push him away. He dodged and caught her hand easily in his good one.  
“You’re so tense, Namie-chan. I could make you feel good, you know. I’d even call you onee-sama, if you like.” He gave her his best half-lidded bedroom gaze.  
She shook off his hand and rose from the couch. Her expression was pinched, lips pressed into a grim line. He wondered. He’d assumed Namie felt awkward because he was her employer, or someone she didn’t even like, but... did Namie feel guilty?  
“Stop projecting your perverted wishes onto me,” she said as she walked towards her room.  
“Oh? And what is it you were doing the other day? Don’t tell me it was for my sake?”  
Her shoulders tensed but she did not look back. He smirked. This round was his, but it didn’t make him feel as smug as he would have liked. After all, he still owed her.

 

The day of Izaya’s departure to Russia was drawing nearer. He was lying in bed before dawn, watching the hands of the wall-clock circle each other towards morning. His thoughts were much the same: circling, circling, but hardly getting anywhere. It was maddening. The world had shrunk, his space in it feeling barely large enough to stretch his body, much less his mind. He couldn’t wait for the change of scene his ‘holiday’ promised.  
The plaster cast on his leg had finally been removed, though he still needed to keep it in a lighter plastic brace. To be free of the weight and the itch of the old cast was paradise. However, when he looked at how thin and useless his calf muscle had become… he could despair over the amount of work it would take just to get back to half his previous strength. Moreover, his attitude to physical therapy had not changed: it was a pain in the ass. Especially when Namie’s sadistic tendencies showed and she made him do the same exercise over and over and over again.  
Still, he wanted to run again. For that, it was worth it.

The cast on his arm had stayed on for another week, but he’d finally gotten Nakahara-sensei to agree to taking it off that day. Even so, Nakahara didn’t look happy with the brace Izaya now wore. At the hospital, Izaya had moved his fingers and tried to flex his arm. Pain had shot up to his shoulder like fire, and Nakahara had nearly thrown a fit. Izaya felt no desire to try and use his arm again. One-handed typing it would be for the time being.

He had gotten better at typing with his right hand only. Shiki had sent him quite a lot of assignments, demanding use of his informant before he went on holiday. Izaya was not happy, but complied with Shiki’s requests. He scowled in the dimness of the room, eyes flitting to the desk where his laptop sat, rows of folders neatly stacked around it. He could not afford to piss Shiki off right now, no matter how much he resented the idea of being used as a tool while he was cut off from a sizable part of his information network. Shiki was a shark. Even immobilized, Izaya had better keep swimming.

He also got more dexterous doing other things right-handed, though he was less eager to brag about them. His reactions to Namie’s hair washing had not gotten any better - worse, if he was being honest, and he found it easier to do that in the twilight between night and day. He was this close to demanding he wash his hair himself but the truth was, he couldn’t resist.  
He hated himself for this compulsion. He hated to depend on another human for anything. Yet here he was, indebted to his secretary who despised his guts and only ever thought of her brother.  
“We’re truly the worst,” he murmured, a sardonic smile on his lips as he stared at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is also quite short (travel to Russia, yay!) and easier content-wise so I hope I can update in a week or two.  
> Comments make me very happy (you have no idea), especially on this story because it gets few views compared to my Shizaya stuff. So please let me know your thoughts :)


	6. Chapter 6

“Okay, I’ll come along,” Namie said the next day. “For that insane amount of money, how could I refuse? But I want details. Where are we going, where are we staying, and why do you want to go that that disgustingly cold country in the first place.”  
Izaya lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. He had, of course, already booked flight tickets for the both of them weeks ago. “Kine-san invited me. He’s the one who first introduced me into the Awakusu-kai. He was something like a mentor to me in those years before he retired.”  
“A retired yakuza?” Her brows rose, the biggest reaction he’d gotten from her in a while.  
“It’s rare, but it happens.” He shifted his arm cast. “Anyway, Kine has a place in Moscow, but since you’re coming too, I think it would be better to stay at a hotel. I’ll make the necessary arrangements. As for the purpose of the visit, well,” he smirked. “I don’t think you were naive enough to assume that it’s purely social in nature? Kine still has lots of contacts.”  
“Keep me out of that. I’ll be there purely to help you with physical matters.”  
“Physical matters, huh?” he let a predatory edge slip into his smile. “Don’t you think it’s unfair that you still didn’t give me the chance to repay that favor, Namie-san?”  
“Stop screwing around,” she said coldly, but Izaya saw a light blush dust her cheeks. “You know how I meant it.”  
Izaya chuckled. “Screwing? Are you _really_ sure you know how you meant it?”  
“You’re so full of it.”  
“Confidence?”  
“More like shit.”  
“Ah, Namie-san is such a tsundere. You should let your -dere side come out to play more,” he sing-songed.  
“I am no such thing. All I feel is an abundance of boredom, annoyance, and disgust.”  
Izaya’s grin vanished. That, he could empathize with.

 

Izaya was not the biggest fan of airports. The check-in and the way to the gate had been uncomfortable and humiliating - not only was he carted around in a wheelchair, the screws in his arm also set off the security alarm. It was a demeaning experience, but the resulting distraction gave Namie the opportunity to discreetly pass on a certain piece of luggage to a pre-bribed employee. Despite the stares, Izaya had not let any embarrassment or nerves show, instead flirting shamelessly with the helper the airline organized to bring him and his ‘assistant’ to their gate.

The flight itself was long and uneventful. Izaya had booked business class seats for the two of them but Namie was not impressed.  
“Your outfit is even more outrageous than usual,” she mumbled under her breath after takeoff.  
“Eh, what do you mean, Namie-san? Don’t I look dashing?” Izaya had insisted on wearing a full suit including a vest and tie. He was here for business, right? His cast was barely visible. In his chatter with the attendant at the airport, he had played it off as an extreme sports accident, as befitting of a successful young businessman.

“It looks exactly like the disguise it is,” Namie said. “Did you notice that you bear quite a resemblance to him like that?”  
“To whom?”  
Namie smirked. “You know. That bartender boy you like to tangle with so much.”  
Some of the other passengers discreetly glanced in their direction.  
“Namie!” Izaya hissed. “You don’t have to phrase it so ambiguously. Besides, Shizu-chan and I don’t look alike at all. He’s blond, for one!”  
“He’s also really tall,” Namie added. “He fills out his suit better. Also, I’ve seen him when he’s not angry and he seems quiet, kind, and thoughtful - yes, you were right, the two of you are not alike at all.”

They spent the rest of the flight the same way - alternately ignoring one another and bickering with each other. Izaya didn’t want to admit it, but he quite enjoyed exchanging barbs with Namie. It was better than the strained silence that had festered in their apartment. Or perhaps it was the whiskey they were drinking.

At the airport in Moscow, Kine himself had come to pick them up. When he saw Izaya, he looked shocked for a second. Izaya hated it, so he put on his best smirk. “Hya Kine-san, you look quite different than the last time I saw you. When did you get those wrinkles? And is that a paunch I see?”  
While there were some new lines marking Kine’s face, he was as slender as ever. He also knew Izaya well enough to play along.  
“Izaya-san, long time no see! Apparently you have mastered the art of proper business attire, though you should rethink the hairstyle. Your assistant looks charming, as well! And I see you’ve even found a throne to suit your tastes. You truly are an enviable man.”  
Namie chortled. She put on her best - and most rarely used - smile. “Kine-san, what a pleasure to make your acquaintance! It is always wonderful to meet somebody who understands my master so well.”  
The two of them hit it off immediately, trading barely-veiled barbs against Izaya over his head. Why had he brought her along again? Right, it was all Shizu-chan’s fault…

The hotel, as expected, was high class and beautiful. Lavish European architecture was really much more to his taste than traditional Japanese austerity.  
“This place is overstuffed with knick-knacks,” Namie murmured as she pushed his chair down the carpeted hallway. “How tasteless. Typical nouveau-riche.”  
The bellboy in front of them showed no sign of understanding Japanese, so Izaya refrained from replying or telling her to lower her voice. On his lap, he carried the only case he had not let anyone else handle after they’d landed - he’d paid a hefty enough bribe to smuggle it through airport security, it would be highly ironic if some idiot dropped it now. It contained the dullahan’s head. For some months, Izaya had been in contact with a man well-versed in its mythology. He was looking forward to meeting him in a few days. It was highly possible that he would finally find some of the answers he craved.

 

The bedrooms of their suite had a connecting door, which Namie had resolutely closed as soon as she got him settled. Izaya locked the dullahan’s head away in the safe. The rest of his luggage could be upacked later. He fell back onto the soft bed and sighed as he loosened his tie. He studied the stucco ornaments on the ceiling while he perked his ears for any sound from the other room. There was some rummaging and a thump when Namie dropped something. Then the shower came on. All that creamy skin and long, dark hair…  
Izaya pushed his nails into his thighs. He really needed to stop. Namie had made it clear that she did not appreciate his interest. Which of course did not go beyond the point of wanting to settle a debt.

It was only afternoon but the flight had really tired him. Despite the extra leg space in business class, his muscles had cramped up, including the ones in his back. They had been traveling for over twenty hours. Izaya carefully went through one of his exercises, gritting his teeth at the pain. He knew that eventually, it would help relax his muscles. It did. When he rested his leg and leaned back into the cushions to relax for a moment, he closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, it was dark outside. He checked his phone - nearly midnight. Izaya felt gritty from travelling and wanted to call out for Namie to help him with the shower. That was when he heard her laugh, followed by Kine’s lower rumble.  
Interesting.  
The wheelchair was still right next to the bed. Balancing on his good leg, Izaya maneuvered himself into it. He rolled through his room and down a short stretch of hallway towards the living room area he had glimpsed when they’d come in. It was tastefully furnished, with big leather couches and a mahogany bar. Izaya was grateful for the carpet that swallowed the noise of his wheelchair, even though it meant he had to use more force to move it. At least the new cast on his arm allowed for that.

“So that’s how he got you in his clutches,” Kine said.  
“Yes,” Namie replied. She sounded tired, and slightly tipsy. “It’s not like I jumped at the chance but I was left with few options. He pays well, and he moves me around for my protection. I could have ended up much worse, I suppose.”  
“Still.” Izaya heard the clinking of ice and imagined Kine taking a sip from his glass. “It’s a waste of your potential, sitting in that office doing secretary work.”  
Namie chuckled. “It’s hardly just that anymore at this point, but I’m curious. Is this your lead-in to a job offer of your own?”  
Izaya’s hands clenched on the armrest of his chair. He did not like the coldness that swept through his chest at all. What was it to him if Kine made Namie an offer? She could be replaced.  
“Possibly. Would that be so bad?”  
Namie snorted. “If I have to stay in this cold-ass place, then yes. Also, no offence, but I think I’d rather stay with the devil I know.”  
“He can be quite charming too, can’t he?” Kine sounded calculating now. Izaya bet he had his scheming face on.  
“Charming? Hardly.”  
“So he has never… tried anything?”  
“In a serious way? No. He just loves to tease. And play. Like the idiot child-king he is.”  
Ne ne Namie, what a little liar you are, Izaya mused. If anyone had harassed the other, it had been her - though he had certainly not minded at the time.

Kine laughed. “I am sure you are not one to be easily intimidated.”  
“I could never afford to be,” she said. “I am also not one to be led astray by a pretty face.”  
Kine snorted. “So you _do_ notice.”  
“I have eyes,” she said. It sounded kind of defensive, and a bit slurred. “Sometimes, when I’m bored, I stare at his profile and wonder what it would be like if he never opened his poisonous mouth.”  
There was the heavy clank of a glass being set down with too much force. “Ugh. His voice is so annoying.”  
“Maybe we should call it a night, Yagiri-san,” Kine suggested. Izaya took this as his cue to turn his chair around and roll back to the bedroom. He heard some more talk of helping her to her room, which she refused, before he clicked the door shut.  
Undressing was still a pain but he managed at last. It was easier at home, when he’d been wearing sweatpants and a loose T-shirt or hoodie. He couldn’t be seen like that among former and future business associates though, so there was nothing he could do about it. No more full suits though. A variation of his usual outfit would have to suffice for everything except the most formal meetings. Izaya crawled under the sheets and let his mind go blank. There was no point in overanalyzing what he’d just heard. He had people to impress tomorrow. Looking like a zombie just wouldn’t do. He had a pretty face to maintain, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have finally managed to get them to Russia! The plot begins to thicken. On a sidenote, I quite enjoyed writing the interactions between Kine and Namie.  
> As always, I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know what you think in the comments :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello :) thanks to those of you still sticking around for my updates! I've been looking forward to editing and posting this chapter. Finally some talk about those mythology theories of Izaya's! I hope you enjoy.

The next few days in Moscow were busy and relaxing at the same time. Izaya met a lot of people and did a lot of elbow-rubbing. Since he was physically at a disadvantage, he had to mobilize his entire charm and mental presence to make sure nobody thought of him as weak. After a month holed up in his apartment, he welcomed the challenge. These types of games were his favorite, after all.  
The relaxing part was that everything had already been scheduled and organized. He was transported in a comfortable car and wheeled around in his chair. Namie was not always with him at those meetings. He did not want to involve her too deeply, both for her sake and his own. She knew enough as it was. Namie had gotten a companion of her own; a man Kine trusted with her safety as well as to help her bridge the language barrier when she went shopping.

“It’s nice to finally have an opportunity to spend all that money you pay me,” she’d said. Izaya didn’t mind. This was a holiday, after all. Namie should also have the opportunity to enjoy herself. His condition had burdened her with a lot of extra work, and even now, she was still the one to help him with his shower and physiotherapy. Kine had offered him an attendant, but he’d refused. It would be awkward, and there would be talk. Namie was discreet, and he was used to her.  
He refused to listen to the small voice at the back of his head that claimed he simply didn’t want to give up on the feeling of her hands in his hair. It was a ridiculous notion that implied that Namie had a single caring bone in her body. Namie was as cold as he was. That was why they got along.  
Equally empty.  
Equally driven.  
Equally sick.  
Izaya was no fool. He was not blind to the fact that his desires and obsessions were not normal, not even simply eccentric. He pursued them in spite of that, grasping for meaning in the darkness.

  


Izaya was sitting in an upholstered chair at the desk in his hotel room, observing the dullahan’s head in its glass container. Just like every evening, he’d removed it from the safe, unlocked the travel case, and set it on the desk for a while. As always, the head looked to be sleeping peacefully, hair slowly waving in the fluid that held it. It was not necessary to keep it that way, Namie had said - the head would not decay even if it were continually exposed to the air. Izaya had done that, had cradled it against his chest as he stood in front of his large window in Shinjuku at night, showing the head this glittering, modern world and its humans. The head had not reacted. It never did. Perhaps the professor could give him a clue as to what could rouse the head’s interest. Izaya felt so close to some kind of revelation, and yet knowledge always dangled just out of his reach.

There was a knock on the door and Namie entered without asking for permission. “Kine-san just told me that you are going to show that to a mythology expert tomorrow,” she said as she approached and came to a halt behind his right shoulder. “I want to be there.”  
“Why?” he asked, looking up at her. Her face was stern, her brows drawn together in determination.  
“I have studied its properties in the lab,” she said. “Maybe I can contribute to the discussion.”  
Izaya smiled slyly. “I think you are more interested in what the dear professor might know about the head’s habit of drawing in the men who gaze upon it.”  
Irritation flared in her eyes. “That, too. Considering both my brother and my employer have fallen for it.”  
Izaya’s eyes narrowed. He really did not appreciate being lumped together with fools like Namie’s uncle and brother.  
“You may not like it,” Namie said coldly, “but you are obsessed with it. Obsession and love are curiously - no, dangerously - similar.”  
A blond head and shocked expression flitted through Izaya’s memory and he felt his good mood evaporate.  
“Whatever you say, Namie-san. Come along. Who knows, maybe the professor knows of a way to heal all unnatural obsessions. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be freed from pining after your brother and being eaten up by jealousy of Harima Mika?”

Namie’s jaw tensed; her eyes grew cold and dark as the night outside. When she spoke, her voice rivaled the biting wind. “You know, I came here to help you with your evening routine, but if you can make it from the wheelchair into this one out of sheer vanity, I’m sure you can manage on your own.” She turned around, her hair fanning out behind her, and stalked towards the door.  
“So mean, Namie-san,” he lilted. “And I was all excited, waiting for Namie-san to tenderly remove my clothes, pat my head, and tuck me in.”  
Namie balled her hands into fists and slammed the door on her way out.

  


“You know,” Kine said at breakfast the next morning, “you really should be nicer to Yagiri-san.”  
Izaya glanced at Namie’s empty place setting. She had not answered the door and he wasn’t even sure if she was currently at the hotel or had already gone out. The appointment with the professor wasn’t until late afternoon.  
“And why is that, Kine-san?”  
“She’s fallen very far, and she’s lost a lot. It’s neither nice nor necessary to rub her face in it all the time.”  
Izaya frowned. “Did she complain to you?”  
Kine snorted. “No. She’s much too proud to do something like that. But it’s obvious, and I was sure that with your observation skills, you would have noticed. She’s suffering.”  
Izaya shook his head. The idea was absurd. Sure, Namie wasn’t exactly a ray of happiness, but suffering was a strong word. They were alike. If he didn’t suffer, why should it be different for her?

“If Namie insists on making the past her god, there is nothing I can do to stop her,” Izaya said while buttering his toast.  
Kine sighed. “Don’t be like that. I can tell she means something to you. I’m not telling you to heal her from all the pain of the world or some shit like that. Just don’t add to the pile.”  
“I’ll think about it,” Izaya said, though he was unsure whether it was a lie or not. “But I don’t think she’d thank me for it, Kine-san.”  
The other man chortled. “She sure wouldn’t say ‘thank you, Izaya-sama’ and bow but she would still let you know she’s grateful. Besides, every once in a while, it doesn’t hurt to do something without expecting anything in return.”  
Izaya remembered his off-hand remark to Namie about how he wanted to build some good karma and extend the invitation to Russia to her. It hadn’t worked out that way, had it? His karma was still as shitty as ever, though he hoped his injuries at least counted as partial payback.  
“We’ll see how it goes,” Izaya said, ending the conversation. “Let’s head to our first meeting. The business proposal sounds promising.”

 

Later that afternoon, Izaya and Namie reconvened in their hotel suite to go meet with the professor. His name was Vasnetsov and he’d spent the last three decades of his life studying Irish, Scottish and Norse folklore, including following up research of actual specimens and sightings around the world. In their exchanges by letter - the professor didn’t do email - Izaya sensed the other’s mistrust of his claim to have obtained a real dullahan’s head. He was very curious what kind of expression the professor would make if he saw the head with his own eyes.  
He was curious about many things. Details Vasnetsov would know about the dullahan and the valkyries, his take on a possible connection between the two. Ways to wake the head, to gain its favor. His fingers trembled and his stomach fluttered and tensed when he thought about how close he was to _knowing_ , yet at the same time, the rational part of his mind scoffed at his hopes. Hope was the unreachable star of the foolish. A well-prepared man had no need for hope.  
He’d be foolish then, just this once.

 

Kine did not accompany Izaya and Namie, but he did provide them with a driver and car. The drive took about one and a half hours, since the professor lived outside of Moscow in the countryside. Namie spent the ride looking out of the window with a bland expression. It bothered Izaya to be ignored, but he did not let it on. If Namie wanted to be mad at him for pointing out the truth about her condition and her brother, so be it. His coat was warm enough to protect him against her icy treatment.  
The driver apparently lacked Izaya’s resilience. After half an hour of tense silence, he turned on the radio and played Russian folk music on low volume. Izaya listened to the lyrics to occupy his time and quietly hummed along to the tune.

They veered off the main road up a driveway lined with what at some point must have been impressive trees. Now, they looked neglected, some of the branches broken off under the weight of the snow. The road could also have been better tended to, but their vehicle managed it.  
The main house came into view. It was a big, gray square of a building. Same as the trees, it had at some point been elegant but had fallen into a slow decay. Pitted against the dark gray afternoon sky, it sent an ominous shiver down Izaya’s spine.  
“Here we go,” he mumbled and opened the car door. Anticipation prickled through him, sharpening his senses. Izaya got settled in his wheelchair. The driver laboriously pushed the chair through the snow. Izaya winced when he was jostled and hit his leg. He was still much weaker than he liked to admit. No matter. The results of the conversation ahead would motivate him in his recovery. In front of the entryway, Izaya had to dismount again and lean on Namie while the driver carried first the chair, then Izaya up the stairs. The driver tipped his hat, then went back to the car to wait.  
Namie rang the doorbell. A servant in a somewhat threadbare looking apron opened. Izaya explained in Russian who they were and she ushered them in.

“I will tell the professor that you have arrived. He is awaiting you in the study.” She shuffled down a hallway. Izaya was relieved to intuit that the aforementioned study was on the ground floor. He doubted the place had a trustworthy elevator.  
“Cozy,” Namie deadpanned. The house was chilly and Izaya felt a draft. He was disinclined to shuck off his coat. “This is nothing,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’ve seen many worse places. He must still earn a pretty nice salary and have inherited some money to finance this level of upkeep.”  
Namie frowned. “So you’re saying I’ve been sheltered because we’ve been staying in very affluent, privileged spaces and driven around in fancy cars.”  
Izaya smirked. “Let’s just say Kine and I have made sure you don’t stray beyond a certain radius when you go out.”  
Before Namie could respond, the servant returned and led them through a series of corridors. The walls were panelled wood, the floor was hardwood covered by long rugs. Unlike at the hotel, these were washed out and thin with use.  
They reached a sturdy door and the servant woman knocked, then opened the door on the call of a male voice. The woman stood back and Namie pushed Izaya’s wheelchair into the room. It was a medium-sized study, the walls flanked with bookcases. They were stuffed to the brim with heavy tomes and interspersed with knicknacks and artifacts of every kind. The light was dim, but a crackling fireplace battled against the chill. There was a set of French windows leading to what might be a snow-covered garden or a junkyard. 

“Mr. Orihara, I presume?” a voice spoke in warm Russian, drawing Izaya’s gaze to a massive wooden desk.  
The owner of the voice was somewhere between his mid-fifties and mid-sixties. He was a tall but haggard man, dressed in a white shirt, dark vest and tweed coat. A woolen blanket had been draped over his shoulders and thin-rimmed glasses sat on his nose.  
Izaya nodded. “Professor Vasnetsov. Pleased to finally meet you in person. This is Miss Yagiri, my assistant. She also has an interest in this… odd case. Unfortunately, she does not speak Russian. Would it be alright to switch to English for her sake?”  
“Of course,” the professor said, already switching. His accent reflected his frequent travels to the British isles. “Miss Yagiri. Enchanted.”  
Namie inclined her head and even gave the man a small smile. “I have examined Mr. Orihara’s specimen in my capacities as a scientist, though without as many results as I had hoped.”  
“A fellow companion in obscure science!” The professor’s eyes sparkled. “And such a young and pretty one, too! You are a lucky man, Mr. Orihara.”  
“Indeed.” Izaya fought hard to keep his composure. Namie’s face was a still mask. Was she plotting the professor’s murder? Perhaps she would be satisfied with taking a finger. “Although you would be sorely mistaken and soon outmaneuvered by reducing Miss Yagiri to her age or gender, professor.”  
“Quite, quite,” the man said, waving the topic aside with a motion of his hands. “Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”  
Namie wheeled Izaya to the desk, where he set down the head’s container and unlocked it. He removed the wrapping to lay the glass bare to their gazes.  
There was a sharp intake of breath from the professor. He was leaning forward over the desk, unable to take his eyes off the dullahans - Celty’s - face.  
“Astounding,” he said. “And you are sure it is genuine?”  
“My uncle paid a lot of money to have it delivered to him,” Namie interjected. “It is real. It does not decay, even if removed from its container. It seems to be… merely sleeping. We have never succeeded in waking it, and it has never spoken.”  
Vasnetsov shivered. “Be glad it hasn’t. It only ever calls out the names of the dead, to summon their souls from their bodies.”

He stood up and rounded the desk, looking at the head from every angle. “By God, she is beautiful,” he whispered. “And so unusual, for it to be a female. In the legends, the dullahan is usually a male unseelie spirit. What is even odder is the condition of the head.” He looked at Izaya over the rim of his glasses. “Not to contradict the validity of your story, I can tell there is something decidedly otherworldly to this head, but according to legend, it should be the consistency of moldy cheese, with a smile from ear to ear and tiny, black eyes similar to flies.”  
Namie snorted in disdain.  
“Clearly, the storytellers favored a version that would make their eager audience shiver with dread,” he continued. “She is rather like an antique bust. A bust of Pallas. Much like in Poe’s famed poem.”  
“Pallas Athena?” Izaya asked. “Goddess of wisdom and war?”  
“The very same,” Vasnetsov confirmed.  
“Fitting,” Izaya murmured. “Wisdom beyond mortal ken, and well… her behavior would certainly be bloodthirsty. The dullahan carries a whip fashioned from a human spine, after all.”  
The professor did not seem to be listening. “Do you have any idea of the body’s whereabouts?”  
“No,” Izaya said. “Regrettably.”

Namie glanced at him from the corner of her eye.  
“Indulge me in some speculation of my own making, professor,” Izaya continued. “You mentioned the head calling out a person’s name. I have been wondering whether there might be any connection to the Norse figure of the valkyrie, calling out the names of heroes on the battlefield to bring them to Valhalla.”  
“Hm.” The professor frowned, still staring at the head. “I must say I have never considered this angle, as to me, the dullahan were always male. I suppose there are certain similarities. However, a dullahan is not a divine messenger or chooser of the worthy, merely a courier of sorts. It is the arm of death, and death does not differentiate among those it reaps. The cowardly or the courageous man, they both meet the same end.” He glanced at Izaya sharply. “In addition, the dullahan is so closely associated with its black steed that they are almost two halves of a whole. There is no such equivalent for the valkyrie. It is not a type of faerie. It chooses the fallen - in some portrayals even using enchantment to make sure its chosen die to fight at the side of Odin. So on the whole, though the theory is certainly interesting, I don’t believe such a parallel can be upheld. In fact, the dullahan bears more resemblance to the Celtic figure of the Morrigan, for instance.”

Izaya’s mask was firmly in place, but his heart was beating faster than it should and breathing was difficult, as though the void in him was expanding. Was that all his many hours of research and reasoning would amount to? Dashed by a few sentences of an old man in a foreign land? “A pity.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat. “But thank you for entertaining my notions.”  
“Certainly. Miss Yagiri, do you have anything to add, or questions of your own?”  
“I do, actually.” Namie stepped forward. “Professor, you are just one more example of a trend I have seen many times in my life. I spent much of my life growing up in the same household as this head, and there is a pattern of behavior I keep observing over and over.”  
The professor tore his eyes away from the head with some difficulty. “You intrigue me. What is this pattern?”  
“Men seem inevitably drawn to, no, bewitched by this head. It overtakes their thoughts, lingers in the back of their every waking moment. They wish to be separated from it for as briefly as possible. They fantasize about it. They… fall in love with it.”  
“Well, it sure is enchanting,” he said, already staring at it again.  
Namie sighed. “Professor, do you have any explanation for why this is, and how it might be reversed?”  
“I am not sure. Seducing men sounds more like the realm of sirens or rusalka or succubi, all of which the dullahan is not. In all of those legends, there is no reversal - the men die. Do you think it is a sort of spell the dullahan’s head cast on them? Or simply a natural property of hers?”  
Namie shrugged. “Since she doesn’t seem to be aware of anything, I’d guess the latter. But that doesn’t really help me.”  
The professor propped his head up on his wrist. “What do you think makes this head so attractive for these men?”  
“How should I know? It’s a severed head. There isn’t even a body. It’s just a face. The eyes aren’t even open.”  
“Like a sleeping princess,” Izaya interjected. “A sleeping princess they want to wake so she can… show her gratitude.”  
Namie actually rolled her eyes this time. “Men.”  
Izaya did not point out that her dear brother was also among those men, and that he probably wanted to do all sorts of perverted things to the head.  
The professor cleared his throat. “That is one possibility. Mr. Orihara, I think you are on the right track. What we have here is similar to the idea of the beautiful, dead woman - in some artists’ and poets’ opinion, the most poetic subject of all.”  
Namie snorted. “Because the only good, obedient woman is a silent, dead one?”  
Vasnetsov shifted uncomfortably. “Well. If the woman doesn’t talk, all sorts of fantasies and wishes can be projected onto her. She simply listens and absorbs. She does not contradict. She does not refuse. She accepts every kind of love, no matter how twisted.” He shrugged. “Though I don’t agree with this view, I can see how it would be attractive to a certain type of man.”  
Namie had paled. “And there is nothing that could be done to rid the men of this unhealthy obsession?”  
“Not that I can think of, or at least nothing simple. Therapy, maybe? The problem lies in the men more than in the head, I think. In the idea of possession. Possessing something rare and precious that is only for them, not for the eyes of the world at large. A treasure to hide or reveal as they see fit.”  
“How about destroying the head,” Namie pressed. “Would that help?”  
“Destroying it? My dear Miss Yagiri, that would make it even worse. The lost head would be lifted up unto a pedestal where nothing else could possibly compare with its absent perfection. No,” the professor shook his head. “No, the men must let the head go of their own volition. That is the only way I see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to disappoint you, Izaya >_< (well, kind of sorry)  
> Also, I know that I have some Russian readers. If I make any mistakes when it comes to that, please let me know so I can fix them.  
> As always I am curious to hear your thoughts in the comments :)  
> Or you can come talk to me on [tumblr](http://coffeebookbandbat.tumblr.com/).


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating this sooner than I thought I would...  
> Just so you know, mature content ahead.

The car ride back to the hotel was even more tense than the one to the professor’s mansion. They had talked to the professor a bit longer over a serving of stale biscuits and insipid tea before taking their leave. Izaya had held himself together, keeping up a façade of clever chatter and mythological discussion. He might still need the professor later, so it was better to maintain the contact and stay in his good graces.

Now though, under a sky grown dark, in a car lit only by the faintest glow of the dashboard controls, he let his mask crack just a little. Hope truly was for the foolish. He’d been an idiot to let himself have it, he should have come up with a contingency plan in case the professor would not confirm his theories.  
Izaya hadn’t.  
He’d been _so sure_. Part of him still was.  
And yet. What if he truly was wrong, what if he’d been wasting his time?

The darkness outside was complete, the car’s light beams the only illumination as they reflected off pristine white snow. Folk music was playing again, yet this time Izaya didn’t feel like humming along. An empty but clenching sensation clung to his lungs, smothering him.

“I guess neither of us got the answer we wanted,” Namie said. Her head was leaned against the window, her hair obscuring her expression.  
“No,” Izaya agreed. He felt bone-tired and weary. His injured leg and arm were aching, his mind a chaos of doubt. Was the professor simply too narrow-minded to see the merit of his theory, or had Izaya truly been… mistaken? Seeing a deeper connection where there was only coincidence?

“I don’t know what to do about Seiji,” Namie said. “I can’t even fight against the head. Vasnetsov is right. If I attack the head, Seiji will defend it to the end and I will be… the evil one. The jealous one.”  
“To be fair, you are,” Izaya said without a hint of pity.  
“I am, aren’t I. The green-eyed monster. The crazy bitch. That’s me.” Namie sounded broken, her voice softer than usual and empty in a way Izaya had never heard from her before. It was not boredom or disdain or suppressed anger flattening her tone. It was the voice of a person lost in the wild, with a compass spinning in useless circles. “How do I proceed under these circumstances?” she added, finally turning to look at Izaya. It was too dark to make out her expression.

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I guess the more important question is: is he worth it?”  
He saw her jerk back, heard her sharp intake of breath.  
“Hear me out,” he said. “I know Seiji is your precious little brother, but what has he ever done for you? Has he ever, in his semi-adult life, shown you any consideration or affection? Even simple gratitude? You’ve been cleaning up his messes but he never looks back.” Izaya shrugged. “He’s also not exactly the brightest bulb in the bunch, both academically and when it comes to how blinded he is by his ridiculous obsession with the head, going so far as to accept even a fake substitute.”  
“Shut up.” Her voice sounded choked.  
“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Izaya said, and it was the truth. “I’m just asking, how much further are you willing to take this? All of that for someone who does not appreciate you.”  
She scoffed. “And what would you know about it? I’ve seen you interact with your sisters. Of course you wouldn’t understand the bond between Seiji and I.”  
He laughed tersely, the crack in his mask widening. “Of course. I have no idea how it is to look out for my siblings while my parents are much more absent than present. Namie-san,” he said tiredly, “I may not have developed an unhealthy amount of love for my little sisters the way you did with your brother, but I do know what it’s like to raise a sibling and have that sibling continually look elsewhere - in my case, to its twin.”  
“We are not the same,” she hissed. “We’re not. We’re both fucked, but we are not the same.”  
He didn’t bother with a reply.

 

That night, Izaya was lying awake in his dark room, listening to the wind howl with snow and bash itself against the windows to his left. There was a gap in the heavy curtains, letting in just enough light to roughly make out the shapes of the hotel room furniture. Izaya stared ahead at his desk, opposite the bed, where the head still sat in its travel container. He could not keep his thoughts from spinning, from returning to the professor’s words. To have his theory so easily refuted did not sit well with him. There had to be a way. There had to be a way to wake this head and ask it - what lay beyond that thin line separating life from death. It didn’t have to be a heaven. _Something_ would be enough.

He sighed. If he could, he would be tossing and turning in the bed. Instead, he thought of how his cast was itching and how Namie had not spoken to him after what happened in the car.  
Fucked but not the same, huh? Silly woman. They were both fighting a losing battle. Maybe he should take his own advice and just give up. It would be spring before his body was even halfway back to normal, and even then, it might not be enough to withstand Shizu-chan. Izaya may not want to admit it, but without that monster to provoke and beat, life looked a bit… bland. Their chases had always been great entertainment and stress relief and yet, he could see now that they were also pointless, an endless repetition of a pattern that had long lost all meaning. Why was he so hung up on this? Shizu-chan wasn’t even human. That made him unworthy of observation, ne? And besides, Izaya knew he didn’t stand a chance in a fair fight. Shizuo was more of a mystery puzzle for him to solve when bored: how do you kill a man that strong, with such monstrous pain tolerance and healing abilities?  
What about-

“Izaya?”  
Startled, he turned towards the door that connected his room to Namie’s, situated just to his left near the head of the bed.  
“Yes?” Wincing, he sat up.  
“Can I come in?” She opened the door a bit further, her silhouette barely visible in the sparse light.  
“What is it?”

After a moment of hesitation, she pushed the door open and walked over to his bedside on bare feet. He couldn’t see her face but she was apparently studying him. Had she really interrupted his thoughts just to stare? “What, Namie-san?” He let his irritation color his voice.  
She sat down on the edge of his bed and reached out. He flinched away at first but when there was no violence to the motion of her hand, he resumed his previous position. It was too uncomfortable otherwise. Namie scooted closer, then trailed her fingers through his hair.  
Izaya’s breath caught. She had never touched him like this outside of the shower. Her fingers were running gently through his hair, down the side of his neck, then back up behind his ear. He shivered. His skin prickled. His mouth felt dry. She still hadn’t spoken a word. When she showed no sign of stopping, he let himself lean into the touch, almost nuzzling against her hand as she cradled his cheek. She made a sound then, a broken noise tearing up her throat. Her other hand rose to brace against his shoulder. Izaya’s heart was racing, his chest felt hot.   
It is just the dark, he told himself. Just the dark at the end of a disappointing day. She doesn’t mean it. I don’t mean it. In another minute, we’ll snap out of it. We won’t let it go any further.

And yet he could not speak. He could not bring himself to utter the simple word that would end this foolish interaction. When Namie unbuttoned his sleep shirt and pushed it down his shoulders, fabric catching against his skin, he didn’t resist. When she let her chin rest in the crook of his neck, his unhurt right arm cradled her thin, shaking shoulders. When he felt her lips on his collarbone, he let his eyes flutter closed. He let her fluff up all the pillows and move them to his back so he could recline against them. When she lifted his hand to her own pajama top, he undid the buttons slowly, one by one, letting his knuckles trail against her soft, smooth skin.

He brushed one side of the garment off her shoulder. “I’m not him,” he whispered into the dark, unable to see her eyes.  
“I know.” She moved in and kissed his cheek, his ear, his neck. Soft, closed-mouthed touches. Izaya’s throat was tight. It hurt to swallow. He blinked to clear his suddenly clouded eyes. Namie’s top was discarded. She moved yet closer to straddle his thighs, the blankets still between them. Izaya’s left hand lay uselessly on the sheets but he raised his right to brush it through her long, silky hair and down her back. Namie’s breath was heavy, the only sound apart from the storm outside. Izaya moved his knuckles around to her front, tracing her ribs, letting his thumb brush against the underside of her breast. He leaned forward and trailed his lips over her collarbones and down, nudging her hardened nipple with his nose, then his lips. Namie let a quiet moan escape, though she bit down on her lip immediately. Izaya went slow. He explored, keeping his touches light, savoring every twitch of her skin, every hitched breath, every suppressed noise.  
Namie, too, let her hands roam, though Izaya was painfully aware that there was not much to explore right now. He usually had a lightly toned chest and stomach, but after over a month without exercise, he was simply skinny. Her touch still felt good. It felt like the sun after two weeks of rain.   
Namie moved off him, though only to tug back the bedding. Her hands trembled a bit when she grabbed the elastic waist of his pajama pants and paused, looking up for permission. Izaya hesitated, but then nodded. Ah, he was hopeless.

Namie carefully pulled the loose pants down over his cast and off, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. She took off the rest of her clothes efficiently - not too quickly, but also not sensually slow. It was too dark for him to see the details of her body. Namie straddled him again, careful not to touch his lower leg.   
“Lift your hips,” she said, her voice low and raspy. He did and she pulled his underwear down to his knees, leaving his hardness to rest against his lower belly. She leaned her forehead against his, her eyelashes brushing against his cheek. He cradled her shoulders, caressed the back of her neck underneath the curtain of her hair. She moved against his thigh, warm and wet on his skin, and he lowered his hand, tracing her hipbone and further down, his fingers slipping into her slick folds. She exhaled against his neck, then rolled her hips against him. He felt his own breath come faster in tandem with hers until she pushed herself off his fingers. His head fell back against the pillows as she slowly engulfed him. She pressed the front of her body into his and picked up a slow rhythm.

Izaya closed his eyes and all he felt was the weight of her, the heat of her, the gust of her breath along his throat. Colors bloomed behind his eyelids. It felt like drowning, seeing the sun reflect on the water far above your head. He wrapped his arms around her, not caring about the cast. His mouth was open but he could not hear his voice. Everything seemed to be drawing towards a point and when he felt her tighten, when he felt her teeth in his neck, he shattered. He broke the surface of the water and he breathed, breathed, breathed. He would never forget the scent of her hair.

 

Namie didn’t speak when she cleaned them up. She never turned on the lights. She never kissed him on the mouth. She ran her hand through his hair before slipping away, back to her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first het sex scene, so I'd appreciate some feedback ^^' Not sure if this really counts as smut per se since that's not the main point of the interaction. I hope I could convey the mood properly.


End file.
